


we were the kings and queens of promise

by RaisingCaiin



Series: RC's Back to Middle-earth Month 2020 [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cultural Differences, Gen, M/M, Melancholy, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23004295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: Edrahil pines, and thinks of home, and remembers why he stays in Nargothrond.(for the B2MeM prompt 3/2/2020 --Think of something that happened to you today and write down the first thing that comes to mind. Start your fanwork with your character having a similar experience or performing a similar task.)
Relationships: Edrahil & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, implied future Edrahil/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Series: RC's Back to Middle-earth Month 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653583
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: Back to Middle-earth Month 2020: Endings and Beginnings





	we were the kings and queens of promise

**Author's Note:**

> B2MeM prompt 3/2/2020 -- _Think of something that happened to you today and write down the first thing that comes to mind. Start your fanwork with your character having a similar experience or performing a similar task._

The flash of hopelessness that floods him, leaves him floored for a moment with the strength and the suddenness of it, is nothing new, and neither is that which prompts it. There is something to the slant, the tint, of the afternoon sunlight as it filters through the alders about Nargothrond, that pains Edrahil whenever the sight of it catches him off guard. For that particular angle, color, shade, of sunlight is an inescapable reminder of where Edrahil now finds himself – so far into the West of the world that he may never find his way home to his own lands, his own trees, ever again. And so, soft and golden and feeble as it may be, the sunlight through the alders’ leaves in the death throes of the afternoon is a pain more poignant than near about anything else in Edrahil’s life ever has been.

But of course there are exceptions. And Findaráto is one such, of course.

And so he has been, for years and years and years. Long before he was the King of Nargothrond as he is now, Findaráto had proved himself an exception to all that Edrahil knew when he was still the smiling prince who had accompanied Edrahil’s former master in their dream-like trip along the banks of the Sirion – back when he had been the only one upon that journey who thought to speak with their taciturn Avari guide as easily as if Edrahil were just as good as any elegant, well-spoken Noldo.

Yes, Findaráto Felagund has been the exception to so much of what Edrahil knows and thinks and believes, and in this terrible saddening afternoon light, that proves no different.

“Edrahil? What is it?”

The voice of the king behind him is soft, and low, and tinged with concern. And Edrahil knows, without ever turning around, that Findaráto will be watching him with a quiet care that does not restrict itself to his Noldorin subjects, or his Sindarin traders, or the increasing number of half-blood children who shriek and run and play about the smooth stone halls of his prosperous kingdom – a care that will extend even to an Avari wildling who lacks the learning, the tongue, the graces, of those he walks among. It is a care that Edrahil both appreciates and resents – wishes to both lean into and shy away from.

Appreciates, because Findaráto is one of the only who shows it. Resents, because Edrahil would prefer it if he had _earned_ such care, or something more, rather than being given what Findaráto so willingly extends to all. 

But Edrahil has never had much gift with speech, even in that long-ago when he had been free to speak his own tongue, and in the many many seasons since his own childhood trade to the Sindar, Edrahil’s resentment for his first captors, and then the Noldor, and indeed all who came out of the Further West to wage war upon a far-off god, has only stoppered up his words the worse. And so it is not just that Findaráto is a king, and Edrahil a mere soldier, that stops his tongue now – it is that words were never kind to him in the first place, and now that he would offer them to Findaráto, Edrahil always finds that he does not know which ones to give. Which ones with which he can name his pain, his softening in the face of Findaráto’s care, and his desire for something far, far more than that, if only he could earn it. . .

And so it happens again now – Edrahil’s poor words turn against him.

“It is – nothing, my king,” he tells Findaráto, face still set straight ahead as if paying full attention to his watch. “No – no danger. N-nothing – to fear.” And, still without looking, Edrahil knows that the King’s face has fallen.

For the words that Edrahil actually speaks are curt, short, brisk, and the voice that Edrahil has with which to say these words is sharp and terse. There are no flowers, no flourishes, in Edrahil, and the lack pains him near as much as the feeble sunlight, when Findaráto deserves all that is elegant and well-made in the world.

But to Edrahil’s surprise, Findaráto’s hand upon his shoulder briefly clasps him tighter still before loosing itself once more. “If you say so,” the King says softly, walking around Edrahil now to stand beside him, to follow his gaze out into the alders and squint into that angled sunlight. As he does, the gold of his hair catches the corner of Edrahil’s vision, so bright and so pure that it outshines even this horrible meager sunlight. And then Findaráto is shaking that glorious mane, looking up to Edrahil, and it is all Edrahil can do to keep his gaze trained ahead as a good soldier must if he is to be worth anything at all to his king.

“And yet,” Findaráto continues softly, still looking up at him with a gaze so intense that Edrahil can feel it all but piercing into his skin, peeling him open for Findaráto to see how completely Edrahil is his. “Should your mind be altered, Edrahil, and you decide that something has in fact pained you – then, my friend, I hope you know that I am here and I wish to hear you. Always.”

And then, with a final soft clap to Edrahil’s shoulder, Findaráto releases him and walks back into the clearing behind where they have been standing, where he and some of the council of Nargothrond have been taking a late afternoon meal spread upon the soft green grass while Edrahil and his fellow guardsfolk keep watch upon the forest in a ring about them.

The low hum of conversation in the Noldo tongue had never slowed, even when Findaráto had stood from his seat to walk among his guards, greeting each one personally and thanking them for their vigilance this sleepy afternoon. But Edrahil had tuned it all out when Findaráto came to stand by him, and only now that Findaráto has rejoined it does Edrahil even think to take it in again. As Findaráto goes to rejoin his council – Noldor and Sindar to a head, as is most of Nargothrond – Edrahil keeps an ear strained toward them, but not for their voices. Only for his king’s.

Above Edrahil’s head, that wretched feeble afternoon sunlight continues to pour itself through the veined leaves and furry pods of Nargothrond’s alders, staining their trunks and the very air about them all with a despondent melancholy that Edrahil knows he will never fully shake so long as he resides here in the Western lands. But the pain and the wistfulness of it all seem more bearable now, for Edrahil is reminded again that although he will never leave Nargothrond so long as its king resides here, it is also because of that same king that he will stay. And in such a light, the melancholy of never seeing his own home again, or the difficulty of speaking an unfriendly tongue for the rest of his days, seem only just prices to pay for the privilege of standing beside Findaráto, a prince and a king who has restored Edrahil’s faith in even these offices.

**Author's Note:**

> Thirty Seconds to Mars' "Kings and Queens" came on as I was editing this fic, and there was my title


End file.
